


A Peculiar Situation

by Enterthetadpole



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Before Season Four, Body Swap, Changing POVs, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, mysterious magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: John Watson knew quite a lot about the inner workings of Sherlock Holmes, and the same could be said of Sherlock's knowledge of John. However things are about to change for the doctor and the detective. Both in a figurative AND a literal sense.Thank you so much to MsScarlet for betareading and Britpicking my story! You are wonderful in so many ways! New chapters to appear weekly unless otherwise noted.Gifted to the amazing and super talented CarmillaCarmine. Your stories were made to inspire other writers like myself! <3
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 49
Kudos: 90
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. The chapter in which John really should have just stayed in bed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CarmillaCarmine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/gifts).



> Kudos and comments are always welcomed and appreciated!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson should have just been able to sleep in peace...and he did. It was the waking up that ended up being the nightmare.

I should have known something was wrong by the thread count of the bed linens. The softness that seemed to almost whisper to all of the areas of my skin that this was the most perfect place to be asleep. I hummed in agreement, and twisted around to enjoy the bed a bit more. It was Saturday, and Sarah had finally been able to get another doctor in for weekend shifts after what felt like half a century. She had smiled at me when she had come into my office with the good news and a fresh cup of coffee. I never knew that _weekends_ _off_ could be such wonderful words until yesterday. Sadly, my brain seemed to not get the memo about not having to flip into doctor mode as quickly as the rest of me. It was already abuzz with figuring out what trousers to wear and if Sherlock had - for once - put on the morning kettle before systematically destroying the kitchen with his latest experiments. I could see him now, bent over some microscope or collection of test tubes. Both dressing gown and head of ebony curls elegantly ruffled in ways that shouldn’t make any logical sense. Long fingers and toes twitching as he went in and out of his mind palace. Gathering data and hypotheses in the same way others would pile up ingredients for baking a cake or creating a cocktail. 

Shutting my eyes even tighter, I allowed myself another few moments of rest. There was still a small chance that somehow I could drift back off to sleep. It helped that the flat seemed almost spookily quiet. No padding footsteps of Sherlock moving around the living room. No muffled sounds of Sherlock falling down onto the couch, fingers steepled underneath his chin. Not even the faint chirp of text responses from Lestrade, who always was bothered by Sherlock’s inability to care about the weekends usually being for family, and not for _The Work_. 

Oh dear, God. It was _too_ quiet. 

Too quiet for Sherlock to be in the flat. A Sherlock out of the flat usually meant trouble had been what dragged him away without waking me. I opened my eyes with the express purpose of checking my mobile for messages. It was possible that I had it on silent and had missed the alerts. It was then that I noticed it. The ceiling stain was gone. The watermark shaped like a crescent moon that existed on my bedroom ceiling since I’d agreed to share so much of my life with a madman. 

I squinted, which was of course stupid. The stain wasn’t just going to appear by simply narrowing my field of vision. Head still on the pillow, I turn to the right to see my bedside table. Well, at least that’s where my bedside table should be, with a clock radio and the book on family medicine that Mike Stamford loaned me last Tuesday. Instead there was a slightly dusty telescope nestled in the corner. Sherlock’s telescope. The same one that I had found in the finally cleared hallway closet about a month ago and teased him about. The nutter had a fully functioning telescope even though he had deleted the solar system. I refused to put such a lovely item back in the darkness. Swallowing hard, I sat up in bed and felt my heart give a terrified squeeze. This was Sherlock’s room, and I was _absolutely_ in his bed.

I needed to breathe. Breathing was important when trying to stop yourself from jumping to the wrong conclusion. Just because I was in the bed of my - as far as I was able to theorize - asexual flatmate didn't mean anything had happened. 

_Married to his work_. 

He had announced that as we sat across from each other at Angelo's. A _not_ first date during a night filled with stakeouts, gunpowder and baked manicotti. Forward to four years later and I'm calculating his Egyptian cotton thread count with areas of my body that Sherlock may have seen. Perhaps even touched. 

_Steady, Watson. Get a fucking hold of yourself._ Last night I wasn't drunk or drugged. At least not of my own volition. 

The first step was to get out of his bed into the bathroom. There was a full length mirror there that I could use to see the state of myself. Take a shower and wash off any lingering disorientation. Then get dressed, make a proper cup of tea and wait for Sherlock to swoop in and explain that this was all some sort of psychological study. The subject being what would happen if an invalided army doctor woke up in the bed of the world’s only consulting detective whom he was secretly in love with. _Christ_. What if he put all of the relevant data into a series of colorful pie charts? I don't think my blood pressure could handle that. 

My feet felt heavy as I moved towards the bathroom. Thankfully it was only a few strides to get there from Sherlock’s room, and I was already making more logical explanations as to what may have occurred. Even if this _was_ research, it was always interesting to hear what connection there was to a case. Even my shoulder felt better than it had in years, so a secondary benefit to last night would have me biting the bullet and buying higher quality bed sheets. Strangely the walk to the bathroom was quicker than I would have thought, as though my legs were longer. I take it back. Being drugged now was back on the table.

  
  


Then grabbing a hold of my toothbrush, I finally glanced up into the bathroom mirror, and the world decided to stop. No warning or fanfare. Just screeched to a halt with the sound of those record scratches in some of those whirlwind romantic comedies. Unfortunately there was no one around to even to pretend to find this funny.

The reflection that stared back was taller and slimmer. The cheekbones ridiculously sharp, and the hair a tangled mop of rebellious midnight curls. The mouth slightly open in soft surprise. I had never seen that mouth ever make that shape, because Sherlock Holmes was never meant to be surprised. Whether I had been there gaping for ten seconds or ten days, I couldn't tell. Eventually however, the door to 221B opened and closed. It shook me back to the present. Well, at least the present as I knew it now. Then a voice called out that I recognized as my own, but with an air of impatience which only belonged to one man. 

"John, do finish up gawking at my reflection and come to the living room. It's obvious that we've got a peculiar...situation."


	2. The chapter in which Sherlock takes time to assess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock starts to figure out what to do about their interesting problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to MsScarlet for the beta reading, and to all of you for your comments and encouragement! ❤️

Deduction indicated that this was not going to be a cut and dried conversation. John usually did not react favourably to events that did not create predictable patterns within the confines of the flat. On crime scenes or follow up investigations, he appeared to embrace the unexpected approximately 92% of the time. This was, of course, excellent. Less effort wasted on answering irrelevant questions and tolerating John's almost obsessive concerns over trivial activities like steady meals. 

However this open-minded attitude more or less evaporated when he walked up the seventeen steps to 221B Baker Street, as if the ordinary tasks of everyday life were to be relished when _not_ on a case. 

Therefore, upon finding myself on living room couch early this morning, when I began my flatmate-imposed sleep regimen in bed, fascinated me. John's laptop lay slightly tilted on the left side of my lap. The blinking cursor was halfway through a sentence regarding the conclusion of a case we’d solved around two months prior. Three inaccuracies within the first two paragraphs, but history had proven that speaking about errors directly - as opposed to suggested edits in all caps in the comments section - was preferable to John.

It took only a few moments to realize that something was decidedly not good. My hands seemed slightly dwarfed by the size of the laptop, and I wouldn't be caught wearing jeans unless going undercover, or in more restless times, to elicit cocaine. Momentarily I considered that I had, as John so eloquently put it, _fallen off the wagon_ . However this thought was dismissed immediately. In all of my previous recreational drug usage, I had never suffered from hallucinations. Added to that, these jeans were an off brand, and I've never been _that_ high.

Further analysis was needed, and finding myself in the very same caramel-coloured jumper that John had worn the preceding night cemented it. Body switching had gone from improbable to achievable. The proof of which was now presently snoring with his - or should I say _my_ \- mouth opened and drooling on the pillow as I - or should I say _John_ \- began to take a mental and physical inventory of the facts. 

Obviously even though my transport now consisted of 62 kilograms of ex military doctor, my brain was completely my own. After a quick search through my mind palace everything seemed to be in order. Nothing rattled or shifted to a place where it should not have been. This was good, and even though John’s legs were, of course, shorter than mine I was still able to pace the living room in contemplation as I made plans for how to investigate our intriguing predicament. 

On the whole, I decided I should not wake John. His post-traumatic stress disorder always caused incidents when it came to jolting into abrupt consciousness. This was discovered when a glorious case involving the drowning death of a woman in both a very dry and also very locked walk in pantry was messaged over by Lestrade. On later reflection bounding into John’s bedroom at half past 4:00am and jumping on his bed to tell him the news had _not_ been the best decision. Granted, the subsequent black eye ended up more humiliating than painful. 

No, it was prudent to let John naturally come to an accurate conclusion of last night’s - or early this morning’s - physical alterations. In the meantime, history gave me clues about how to most efficiently calm down my soon-to-be panicked flatmate first thing in the morning. It was to provide food - scrambled egg sandwich topped with double bacon - and very strong coffee. Black with two sugars. 

Speedy’s opened precisely at 7:30am, and general patterns indicated that John would awaken at approximately 8:00am, even with the change of having Saturdays off. It would take at least a few weeks for his body - or at this point, _my_ body - to acclimate to the modified schedule. So after spending the next couple of hours showering and dressing in what I deemed to be appropriately John-like clothing, I headed out.

Evidently Betty, cashier at Speedy’s, routinely flirted with John. Dark blonde hair tucked behind the right ear. Lingering smile when my order was placed. Soft touch from her hand on John’s forearm when joke was made involving the early morning rush. The woman would be doing something dreadful if I didn’t intervene soon. Like giving out her mobile number or, even worse, the keys to her flat. 

“How has your cat dealt with the recent string of male callers to your home?” 

As expected, that did the trick, however I made a thorough examination of John’s take away before I left the diner. Just on the off chance that Betty was more of the vengeful sort than I had initially presumed. On the return to the flat and observing my bedroom door now fully opened and John no longer asleep. I surmised - quite correctly, of course - that John would be staring transfixed at himself in the bathroom. Most likely in the process of deciphering to what degree he had been drugged. It did appear to be John’s go-to theory whenever he ended up in happenstances. 

In all honesty I am not quite sure how to take that.

Nevertheless, John’s food was cooling, and I needed us to start to get on similar pages as to how to best fix this set of circumstances. So I called out to him to stop gawking at the reflection of myself in the mirror, and to meet me in the living room. Precisely three seconds later I found myself being tackled by an incredibly angry former rugby player. Evidently, I may have misjudged the mentally relaxation powers of an egg sandwich - with double bacon - and a black coffee, two sugars on the side over this type of situation. Peculiar or otherwise. 


	3. The chapter in which John almost kills himself...figuratively speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I believe the title is enough to be going on with, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah...
> 
> It's been a while since I have touched this story, and for that, I apologize. Many excuses but no need to make the chapter notes my therapy session. With that said, thank you to all of the patient readers who have waited for me to continue. I promise that there won't be this type of time-lapse between chapters again. Our Baker Street boys need to get going on this interesting mystery! Thank you again to MsScarlet for beta reading and Britpicking my story! 
> 
> Also thank you to the talented CarmillaCarmine for the stories that provided the inspiration for this one!

Can a person be charged with murder for killing the person inhabiting their body, or would that be more of a very complex form of suicide? It sounded like the sort of crime that Sherlock would adore. The way his face would go all twinkling lights and fresh fallen snow. As if Christmas or his birthday had come early. Then again, Sherlock had probably deleted _both_ of those dates, so never mind. Clearly, my attacking Sherlock once I had rounded the corner was not the most _dignified_ action I had ever taken in my life, but this absolutely had to be his fault. The whys and hows were secondary to apparently screaming a bevy of _very_ creative curse words at the top of my lungs. All this while being lightly smacked with what I believe was a Speedy’s breakfast order of an egg sandwich - with double bacon. Of course the bloody berk would try to placate me with my favorite breakfast meal. 

“John,” he wheezed, and my god this was too surreal. Did my voice really squeak like that when stressed out? Like a field mouse being pounced on by a lanky feline in a purple dressing gown? 

I straightened up to see him - or technically _me_ \- gazing up wide-eyed and red-cheeked. The remnants of bacon and eggs littered the floor as he tried his best to wiggle out of my tight straddling of his waist. If Mrs.Hudson were to _Yoo Hoo!_ into our flat at this very moment there would be no stopping her knowing glances for the rest of time. Her bridge club had taken bets on when we would set a date on the wedding, for God’s sake. 

This was enough to get me to stand up fully. The dressing gown rippled around me like some sort of cape as I awkwardly did my best to not lose what was left of my sanity. I’d probably need it to get through whatever the hell this was. Sherlock slid himself up into a seated position looking positively alarmed. Good then. Served him right for putting us in this situation in the first place. I glowered at him and it was nice, for once, to be able to use the full height and imposing nature of Sherlock Holmes against him. Granted it would have been more dramatic without the stray pieces of bacon on the front of his dressing gown and crumbs in his curls, but it worked well enough. 

“Explain…” I commanded, and _Christ_ his voice seemed even deeper when inside of his body. “Explain everything that happened... _now_.” 

Then he did something that was so - _Sherlockian -_ that I would have known it was him no matter what he looked like on the outside. He huffed at me. Huffed at me as if I was the biggest idiot in the entirety of London. _Huffed_ at me as if I demanded him to pluck the sun out of the air with just the aid of an oven mitt and a moderately sized step ladder.

“What you are requesting, John...is nearly impossible for me to do under the limited evidence that I have presently ascertained. “

“Limited evidence?” I barked back, and yes, this voice was indeed made for being imperious. All I needed now was a kingdom to rule. “And when did the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, ever need more than chipped fingernail polish and a smudge on a shoe to solve a crime? You _strive_ off of limited evidence!” 

Oh, dear lord, and there he went. It wasn’t fair that he was sulking in _my_ body. With my smaller frame, he looked less like an elegant leopard curled up in quiet contemplation and more like a hedgehog spiked up in a barely-contained fit. 

“Shouting at me will not help our current problem,” he muttered. More into the sleeves of my jumper than to me, but I heard him well enough. “It would be best for us to think this all the way through. Retrace our steps and perhaps that would yield more information.”

I nodded at this. “Right, so from waking up yesterday, then? Good. Let’s start.”

He smiled back, and that twinkle in my eye I recognized at once. “Excellent, John. The game is on!”


	4. The chapter in which Sherlock begins to draw up a strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another pun...they will be the death of our Baker Street boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this story is actually continuing. So sorry for such a huge delay. It's a blending of too much outside work (boo to adulting) and too many other plot bunnies. However, I will do better by myself to you the readers, and myself as a writer. As always kudos and comments are always welcomed to get my slow arse to stay in gear. 
> 
> Also to my way too patient and even more lovely MsScarlet for beta reading and Britpicking my story.

Well, that was tedious. 

Not the overnight rearrangement of my mind into the body of John and vice versa. That was a mystery that was better than anything that the whole of greater London could manage, quite frankly. The tedium came from John acting so put upon by the entire set of circumstances. He also allowed a perfectly good egg sandwich - with double bacon - to be destroyed. I must admit that highly annoyed me. Especially when he droned on and on about how nourishment was so incredibly important. I will have to remind him of the hypocrisy of the actions of this morning at a later date. 

Repeatedly. 

However, for the time being there was an investigation to be started, and I was more than up for the task. The first step in rectification was to get a clear understanding of the logistics of the whereabouts of both John and myself for the entirety of yesterday. This involved the rearrangement of various items hung on the largest stretch of wall so that I - with the aid of a step ladder due to the height of John’s body - could more readily visualize the whole of London in various photographs and drawings.

“Sherlock...what the hell did you do to the sitting room?”

I twisted around enough to see John’s sour expression. It looked out of place on my face. The angles were all wrong to support what I had learned was his _I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?_ look. It was a countenance that John created at least three times a week. Up to five times if I had run out of nicotine patches and was particularly infuriated by that reality. 

“I’m strategizing the best possible routes to locate where the potentiality of a mind swap most likely would have been possible,” I replied as I turned back to the task at hand. This time the focus was on where John and I had been after meeting with Lestrade at that level three crime scene. The case had been especially boring and I had spent the majority of the hour there calling Anderson an idiot. 

That had been the only highlight. 

“We do have other surfaces to destroy that aren’t directly connected with our flat deposit.”

Apparently John was continuing on this train of thought. His stubbornness always had a tendency to manifest at the most inconvenient times, and appeared to expand whenever such insignificant objects such as scribbled on wallpaper or bullets in drywall were concerned. 

I could hear him coming closer behind me, and see him as he glanced up at my handiwork. Upon this now closer inspection his attempt to calm down my hair with his brush was a failure of epic proportions. 

“What?” he grunted, already defensive. “Not my fault that your curls have a mind of their own. Nearly lost a finger trying to untangle the back.”

I smirked as he looked over to a cluster of pushpins off to the right. 

“The British Museum,” he said. His voice was tinged with confusion. “Where we met up with Mycroft? You think that he has something to do with this?”

Frowning, I stepped off of the stepladder and grabbed my mobile. The text to Mycroft was a brief one. 

“It’s where we spent the most time yesterday other than at that dull case at that fish and chip shop,” I said quickly. “So it makes the most logical sense to add it to our list of places to revisit.”

John gave a tight nod and tried to run his fingers through his hair. Then he cursed as he got his hand stuck. Served him right for daring to style my locks without the proper products.


End file.
